


Just a Spoonful of Sugar

by Masterweaver



Category: RWBY
Genre: domestic comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:21:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22482484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masterweaver/pseuds/Masterweaver
Summary: Every once in a while, a rich family will have a bratty child and a magical nanny will descend from the heavens to teach them valuable life lessons.But like with every other story it uses, Remnant doesn't quite play by the rules.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	1. An Unexpectedly Terrible Night

Whitley was having an unexpectedly terrible night.

It had all started when one of the party guests had splattered him with wine. Admittedly, that was an accident–one that had been kickstarted by somebody spilling a literal tower of food on the woman–but white hair was difficult to keep clean. Still, Weiss had actually had a look of horrified sympathy on her face for the briefest of moments, so it wasn’t a total loss.

Whitley had to retreat for a change of clothes and a quick scrub, but he thought he’d recovered enough to step back out before the party ended… only to find his sisters in the process of arresting his father. The fact that they’d gotten a crime to stick at all was astounding, and from the way the general was glaring at the man it felt as though he wouldn’t be coming back.

And as if that weren’t bad enough, the guests were all in a tizzy over the heating being shut down in Mantle. Which, to be fair, Whitley found himself concerned over too, but with them all rushing out to throw their money at the problem, he’d been left behind in a large and empty house. Even the staff had quickly rushed out to do… whatever it was they thought they could.

So he’d gone to his room and most certainly did not mope. If he were younger, perhaps, he would have moped. But Whitley was a full fourteen years of age and therefore an entirely mature adult. Yes, the night had been unexpectedly terrible, and he was understandably upset, but that was no reason to simply stand about his room and glare at the floor, which he certainly was not doing.

No, he was not moping, he was… looking for the towel he had left behind when he cleaned himself up. Yes. The staff was gone, so it wouldn’t be picked up any time soon. He would take it down to the utility room himself. And, well, to be fair he would not put it in the washing machine–he’d seen enough disasters to know that an inexperienced person handling that bit of machinery could do more harm than good–but he’d put it on top of the washing machine, and tomorrow…

…well… when the staff returned, anyway. Then he’d tell them to deal with it.

The slow walk through the empty halls of the Schnee mansion was long enough for Whitley to consider what might happen next. His father was arrested, which itself was surprising–he’d never thought anybody would get a crime to stick to the man, but there it was. And while he was entirely a mature adult, certain laws which were put in place to prevent children from running companies chaotically did also make it difficult for him to run the company in his father’s stead. If there even was a company after tonight… the head being arrested for what amounted to treason was not something Whitley thought the SDC could recover from.

No, perhaps thinking about the company was not the right way to go. It would probably still be there when he came of age, if the board kept it running until that time. What was important was what would happen tomorrow. Let’s see… Mantle was being evacuated up to Atlas, so there would be a lot of displaced civilians… many of whom worked for the company. Most likely they would want to see to their continued survival, so they would seek to ensure their jobs were secure. Whitley _could_ make some sort of announcement in that regard…

Couldn’t he? He was the heir to the company, even if he had no authority as of yet. At the very least, he was a handsome young man. Yes… Whitley could start up a reputation now as the new face of the SDC. Charming and benevolent, who spoke up at the time of his employee’s greatest need and… hmm. What was it that people displaced from their homes needed, anyway?

A blip from his scroll alerted him to the presence of people in the drive-around just as he put the towel on the washing machine. Ordinarily, he would simply have let the staff handled it. Then again, ordinarily they wouldn’t all have left because of Mantle’s heating grid being shut down. If he ever saw the man who was responsible for that, Whitley would certainly tell him off for inconveniencing everyone. And possibly killing people…

Actually, he mused as he began the trek to the foyer, if this man was alright with killing people it might not be the best idea to tell him off about it. Getting on the bad side of a known murderer was generally a poor idea overall. Especially if their kill count had run up to the double digits. Prior to that it could all be excused as perhaps a really terrible bar fight, or a gang war, or something. But there was a difference between deliberate intent to kill and accidental mass death. Years of listening to his father had made that very clear–mining could be a dangerous form of employment, after all.

What would father do in this situation? Whitley couldn’t really think of his father ever being so… lost. He always had a plan. But then, he apparently hadn’t been ready for his daughters to try to arrest him. And to be honest, without a goal the very idea of a plan seemed laughable.

He sighed as he entered the foyer, glancing at the clock on his scroll. It was a mere hour after his father had been escorted out… not that long, even if it felt like a whole month. Maybe he had been mo–er, looking for that towel a little too long. Still, as he pocketed his scroll, Whitley put on his best expression of formal neutrality and strode toward the front door.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said as he opened it, “but the man of the house is not… present at… the mo…ment…”

The tall woman leading the group, skin white as bone and eyes like rings of burning scarlet floating in pools of shadow, smiled down at him. “That’s quite understandable,” she said in surprisingly soft and gentle tones. “Still, if you would be so kind as to let us in willingly, I would be most… _appreciative.”_

The boy swallowed, backing up a few steps. “Of… course, ma’am. May I ask, ah, who it is we have the honor of hosting?”

“My name is Salem. And you must be mister Whitley Schnee.” The woman stepped forward, trailing a finger up his jaw. “It is quite the pleasure to make your acquaintance, young man.”

Whitley gulped. He was having an unexpectedly terrible night–he just didn’t know how terrible it would get.


	2. The Shield Of Servitude

A strange and yet all too familiar terror flooded through Whitley's essence, and he reacted as he always did when overwhelmed.

"May I ask why you are here?" he inquired formally.

There was a faint rise of an ebony eyebrow, the dark eyes running through his soul like a sieve. Whitley cringed slightly, bowing his head.

"...I am here," Salem replied, "on business."

"Ah." Whitley nodded, many realizations becoming clear. "Well, as I said, the man of the house is not available at the moment--"

Immediately years of training screamed at him that that was exactly the wrong thing to say.

"--but perhaps I can get you tea while you wait?" he offered, a polite smile plastered on his face.

"Do you know how to brew tea?" Salem asked.

 _No, the servants do, but they're all gone._ "Yes."

Whitley risked a peek at her face. When Salem allowed her eyebrow to raise a scant few centimeters more, he bowed his head again.

"Lying," Salem said softly, "is unbecoming of a young gentleman."

The faint hint of warning was accompanied by the sudden sound of a footstep. It wasn't from Salem, but from the silver-haired man behind him; the weight of his step against the tile marked him as having metal feet. Whitley's eyes shot up nervously, so he saw Salem stop the man with a small, dismissive wave.

"I do appreciate your attempt at hospitality," the pale woman continued, her voice laced with... he wanted to believe it was compassion, even as he wondered if she were capable of it. "It speaks volumes of your character. And yet... I find it is best to serve according to your means." She let the implication hang ominously in the air.

Whitley's mind raced, desperately searching through his skills (oh god oh god he was _fourteen_ what could he possibly _offer_ this woman oh god oh _god_ ) and trying to maintain his composure. "Of course," said his mouth before he could stop it. "Might I escort you to the gue--to the _master_ suite? You must have had a long journey, after all."

Did she even sleep? _Could_ she even sleep? What if she needed some sort of special bedding, like, like the bones of faunus or huntresses or faunus huntresses--

"Well now," Salem said approvingly, "how could I deny such a gracious offer? Lead the way, mister Schnee."

Whitley bowed, hiding the sheer relief on his face (could she read his mind? Sense his emotions, like Grimm did?) and spun around. "Right this way..."

Time. He'd bought time, even if it was only the time it took to lead Salem and her companions (servants? disciples?) through the mansion. Time to think of how else he could serve, how else he could avoid her ire...

The dress. Simple, but elegant. Salem had some sense of taste, and Whitley had money. Perhaps, perhaps he could commission an artist--yes, yes, he could buy things for her, from people who might stupidly reject her should she simply stride through the open doors of a store (and briefly, irrationally, he had an image of Salem with a basket on her arm examining an apple in a grocer's market, her expression faintly disapproving)--

In fact, yes, yes, he was... well, not an unknown face, but he could be her public face, the one who was sent to arrange minor things throughout Atlas, to bring comfort to the home. Whitley glanced over his shoulder at the two others--both as nervous and wisely servile as he, the silver-haired one clearly a personal dispatcher of whatever annoyance Salem deemed beneath her to resolve, and the green-haired one... what was she? A master spy? A personal entertainer? He couldn't tell from looking at her, but he knew his survival depended on his value, as it always was, and it would be foolish to offer something Salem already had...

Whitley steeled himself, daring to take a small risk. "And... where would you like me to set up your, ah...?" He gestured toward the two, hoping the woman would fill in the blank with her answer.

The pair stiffened slightly as Salem examined them minutely. "I believe," she eventually decided, "that they should attend to your dear mother, for the moment."

In his panic Whitley had forgotten about his mother. But now, now suddenly recalling the woman's existence, he felt his heart run cold. As inconsistent and fallible as she was, Willow still... mattered, in some way he couldn't say. She had stayed, even when his other family had abandoned him--

"I was--" The green-haired woman flinched visibly when Salem focused on her. "I was under the impression that we would be welcoming Cinder when she arrives, ma'am."

Whitley held his breath.

The ivory woman turned, facing her servant coolly. "When Cinder _arrives,_ I will ensure that her atonement is genuine. Afterward, yes, she will _return_ to the fold. I am afraid I cannot allow unwarranted interference before then."

The green-haired woman wilted slightly, before straightening up. "...yes ma'am."

Carefully, Whitley let out his breath. Foolish though it had been, her quiet protest had shown him where the line was with Salem. For that, the green-haired woman had Whitley's gratitude... if only for the moment.

It was only a matter of minutes later that Whitley arrived at the master suite, opening the door (thank god it wasn't locked) and politely stepping aside as Salem glided in (his eyes darting around quickly and finding, oh miracle of miracles, that his mother was not lounging drunkenly on any of the furniture). "I do hope it is to your liking," he said, polite smile locking his fear behind servitude. "If there is anything you wish changed, I could go into the city tomorrow to make arrangements."

"Perhaps I shall consider your offer later. For the moment, this shall suffice."

Whitley nodded quickly, stepping around the room. "There is a dumbwaiter there, though the kitchen staff has... gone home for the night. And, as you can see, the master bath is through there and the walk-in closet has space for--" he quickly checked himself as he reassessed the simple elegance of Salem's outfit-- "dozens of outfits."

He turned, ready to continue his pitch, but Salem's calm gaze pierced him again, the words coiling back down his throat.

"...I shall leave you to it then," he decided, carefully backing out of the room and shutting the door.

It wasn't until he turned around that he realized he had two other guests to handle.


End file.
